


小狗 | puppy

by livsn



Category: The Founder of Diabolism, The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Introspective Writing, M/M, Very minor LWJ/WWX actually, headcanon about WWX's cynophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 19:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17168081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livsn/pseuds/livsn
Summary: “Sorry, Jin Ling. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over dogs, even if it’s Fairy,” Wei Wuxian shrugs, even as Jin Ling bristles even more. “But let me tell you a story. I used to have a little puppy – ”“Don’t lie!”Wei Wuxian smiles and leans against his husband coquettishly. “Am I now? How about you, Lan Zhan? Would you believe me?”





	小狗 | puppy

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for several mentions of Chinese delicacies without providing definitions, but if you wouldn't mind Google-ing a bit, I promise you'd be able to find images of them all. 
> 
> The most fundamental though, which I think can be easily guessed, _a-die_ means 'dad'; _a-niang_ means 'mom'.

A-Ying is aquiver, thrilled and on edge when _a-die_ returns home with _a-niang_ grinning beside him and a squirming bundle in his arms. He likes it when _a-niang_ smiles like that because it usually means that there’s something good that he can look forward to. Like _tanghulu_ , sticks and sticks of hawthorns and hawberries coated in a glaze of sticky honey syrup that makes A-Ying want to lick and lick his lips and fingers, toes curling in simple, endless delight. 

Or _jiao zi_ , fried and filled with the fragrance of meat to stuff his mouth, hunger, heart with warmth and pleasure, gorged on contentment. 

Or _rou jia mo_ , spiced to perfection to a melt of flavours satisfying enough make him beg his laughing mother sometimes for an extra mouthful. 

Unlike _a-die_ – reticent, introverted _a-die_ , who treated words like precious gems, who made gestures with a modesty and constraint born of years of servitude – _a-niang_ can’t keep a single secret. Her heart is worn on her sleeves, ardour reflected in the glimmer of her gaze, spirit laid out for the world to see. 

All inherited by A-Ying, _a-die_ once said thoughtfully, quietly pleased; like he’s proud that A-Ying resembles his mother so much, like all his prayers have been answered in A-Ying alone. It makes A-Ying feel treasured just the way he is – doesn’t have to fight to make them love him. Caught between his parents’ embrace, trapped between their fervent devotion, smothered between their tenderness with him, A-Ying hasn’t ever known any other life, but he knows he loves this one. Doesn’t need comparison, doesn’t need to envy other children with pretty clothes and prettier houses. 

But now. Now, though, that is all far, far away from his mind. All he sees is the restless cloth-covered mass in _a-die_ ’s arms; the twitching grin that _a-niang_ is trying hard to contain by grasping onto the ends of her husband’s attire, the sparkle in her eyes that’s more like a twinkle – and thinks _mischief! A-niang has goodies! A-die is holding a secret! Is it yummy food? A-Ying wants!_

“ _A-die!_ ” he screams first, excited after having been cooped in their little home-shack for more than half a day. His parents had left for a regular night-hunt session the night before, _a-niang_ tucking him into bed and making him promise to be good for them before they left. 

_Don’t open the door for strangers, don’t go out of the house without permission,_ _a-niang_ had said as she dressed him for bed, undoing his hair into a tumble of dark tangles that she combed her fingers through. They had braided it the evening before, A-Ying wanting to copy his mother’s hairstyle. It’s wavy now, curious in a way that had fascinated A-Ying for the whole evening. 

_Don’t play with knives, the axe in the shed, or anything that you know you’re not allowed to touch either, a-die_ added, standing by the bedpost, watchful in his observation of his little family. Between both of his parents, A-Ying knows that his father is stricter with discipline and expects him to take his responsibilities seriously; so he nods as solemnly as he can, weight in his stare, and promises as he watches them step out the door, hand in hand. 

“ _A-die!_ Present? For A-Ying? Please hurry! A-Ying wanna see!” A-Ying grins, not stepping across the threshold, obedient even as his parents are only several steps away. Instead, he bounces impatiently in place as if he can't hold his feelings within himself for even another second – eager, wanting, desperate for his parents’ love.

 _A-niang_ loses her composure right then, tipping her head back to howl with laughter, unconventionally hoydenish by society’s standards that meant little to naught to her. A-Ying has heard _a-die_ tell her once about a Lan Qiren who would be most upset with her if he were to hear her as she is, but _a-niang_ doesn’t do anything beyond snicker, promising that she’ll help him rediscover his inner child again the way she once did. 

The declaration made _a-die_ grin his rare smile, but A-Ying secretly thinks that he already dislikes this Lan Qiren for being so mean to his mother. A-Ying thinks the world of his mother – _a-niang_ is perfect, like the sun and the moon and the stars, and _a-die_ agrees. And if _a-die_ agrees – the smartest man to have ever existed in the world; A-Ying’s greatest hero and champion – then it must be the truth of the universe. 

“Patience,” _a-die_ replies, a small smile on his lips once more, placid and pacific in his steps towards home and his son; a family puzzle waiting to be pieced together again. 

“Patience!” A-Ying parrots, grinning and holding out grabby hands with a pout. Wants to be pampered by his parents. Misses his mother’s scent already, sweet honey scented, even if it has only been a short night. _A-niang_ seems to understand and complies, laughing out loud again and skipping ahead to pull her son into her arms. Throws him into the air with a whoop, catches him with a smooch. 

“ _Have_ you been good, A-Ying? _A-die_ is only going to give it to you if you’ve been good,” _a-niang_ says, nuzzling her son’s cheeks with her nose affectionately, grinning into his hair. “It’s a really, _really_ special treasure, you know.” 

“A-Ying has been good,” A-Ying replies quickly, shortly; he _has_ , he thinks, been very, very good. Did not step out of the house or open the door even when there were several short knocks; did not play with anything that he isn’t allowed to; even studied several lessons ahead of the one that _a-niang_ is teaching him despite being sleepy. 

“Really?” _a-niang_ asks, tucking her son’s head against her bosom, turning around to face her husband as he joins them with a nod. 

“‘es!” A-Ying perks up and holds himself up against his mother’s chest to emphasise gravely. “A-Ying has been very good. Promise. Present now please!” He kicks a little then and points at the bundle that is wriggling even more aggressively now, so much so that _a-die_ is having trouble keeping a hold on it. Clearly it’s not food, and if it’s moving, it’s probably an animal. A-Ying suspects that he knows what it might be, and he wants to touch it, but _a-die_ ’s smiling indulgently, tugging at the cloth up every now and then, and – 

“Patience!” A-Ying scolds himself, forcing himself back against his mother’s neck to wait it out. It’s a lesson that _a-die_ has been trying to teach him, and something blossoms into a warm, golden glow within him when _a-die_ smiles and nods. “Patience.” 

_A-niang_ preens, proud and pleased. This is her son, her beloved son – four and impish and immature still, but trying. Hers, and her husband’s, made from love. Hers to protect, with her husband. “That’s right, my little baby boy. That’s what _a-die_ said.” 

“Come sit,” _a-die_ comments then, moving to sit on a bench by the door of their house, and motions at his wife to join him with their son. A-Ying waits in his mother’s lap, restless and fretful, but his respect for his father holds him in place. 

“A-Ying,” _a-die_ begins, quiet and heartfelt, petting intermittently at the bundle set in his own lap. “You get a choice, alright? To accept this gift or not. But if you do accept, then it will become your responsibility, and you must promise to take care of it. Do you understand?” 

A-Ying doesn’t, but he hears ‘promise’ and ‘responsibility’, and instinctively senses the gravity of the situation. Such big words. In all of a second, he feels a frisson of fear, but then _a-niang_ holds his hands, rubs a finger across his knuckles, and he recovers himself. 

“Promise,” A-Ying whispers, drowns in his father’s pool of eyes and finds himself wanting to prove his worth, to rise to his father’s expectations. He doesn’t know the word for it yet, but this is him worshipping the ground that his father walks upon, in the best way that he can. “A-Ying promise.”

The curve on _a-die_ ’s lips is almost unnoticeable, but A-Ying has known this face since his birth, has watched it attentively in his four years of existence – a child’s perceptiveness that’s knows no bound, just as a parent’s does. “Alright,” he says shortly, takes A-Ying’s hands, and guides him into pulling off the piece off cloth. 

A-Ying grins, bounces against his mother, holds out both arms to hug the body of fur in front of him. It’s matted, mangled, and dirty – but it’s his now. 

“Puppy! Mine!”

\---

Puppy indeed, but not entirely A-Ying’s. The little creature is affectionate enough once it gets used to A-Ying’s cuddly, demonstrative nature – enthusiastically cuddling the ball of fur whenever allowed – but he quickly learns that it has an independent streak of its own as well. 

“ _A-niang_! Puppy barked at A-Ying!” he sobs for the third time that morning, running towards his mother with a loud wail that was heartbroken enough to have startled his parents had they not been aware of their son’s dismay. _A-niang_ crouches down to meet her son at eye level when he crashes into her arms, pushing his face instantly into the crook of her neck. 

“Just wanna hug it,” he whimpers tearfully, reluctantly straightening into a slouch when his mother tugs him up and pins him with a look. 

“Is that all you wanted to do though?” _a-niang_ questions, raising an eyebrow like she knows exactly what A-Ying is trying to do. And she does, A-Ying knows, which makes him fidget in place even as he tries to whitewash his intent. It’s his giveaway, but he doesn’t know this yet, and _a-niang_ certainly wouldn’t be the one to tell him. 

“Wanted to...hug, yes,” A-Ying says slowly, trying his best to stop at that, but it’s _a-niang_ ; and it’s almost impossible for sons to lie to their mothers, even if it’s just by omission. Law of the family, law of love. So A-Ying bites his lips while _a-niang_ waits patiently for him to succumb, giving in after just a while of hesitation. “And...bring to bed.” 

_A-niang_ nearly keels over laughing, and _this_ laugh of hers – A-Ying does not like. She’s laughing at him now, and A-Ying thinks there’s nothing funny and everything crucial about bringing the puppy into bed with him. He needs to keep it comfortable, keep it happy, keep it by his side. Keep it because it’s his first company that he can count on to stay by him, unlike all the other children whom he’d had to leave behind all the time because _a-niang_ and _a-die_ would move from place to place during their night hunts. 

It’s not that A-Ying hates it, this nomadic life that he’s born into, hitched onto the shoulders of _a-die_ where he sits tall and feels like the world is laid out at his feet while _a-niang_ follows on the back of a mule. But there’s also something equally comforting about having something constant, something enduring and reliable, stable and steadfast – like the other children when they say that they’re going ‘home’. 

Let _a-die_ and _a-niang_ be the cornerstone of his young life, but puppy is his anchor by choice. 

_A-niang_ stops laughing after a while, nuzzling him carefully when she realises that he’s hurt, upset. “I’m sorry, A-Ying, it was bad of me to laugh. But I promise that I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing because you were trying hard not to tell me that you wanted to bring the puppy to bed.” 

“...Oh.” A-Ying wipes at his teary eyes, lifting his gaze nervously, like he’s afraid _a-niang_ would lie to him. “Not at A-Ying?” 

“Of course not,” _a-niang_ smiles heartbreakingly sweet, smooths her son’s hair back to kiss his forehead heartrendingly tender. Her fingers are rough from her constant wielding of her sword, but it’s delicate against A-Ying’s skin. Careful. Loving. Maternal.

“Is it wrong?” A-Ying’s rarely insecure, a little daredevil in the making; but sometimes, even he can’t stop his voice from growing small. It’s meek now, anxious in front of his mother’s affection for him. 

_A-niang_ grins, bright and reassuring. “No, A-Ying. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to bring the puppy to bed, but you can’t force it. You don’t like it when the children force you to do things that you don’t like either, do you?” 

 

“Oh,” the child replies, a curtain of realisation dawning, and just like that, he grins brilliant and earnest again. “A-Ying gonna invite!” 

It takes _a-niang_ by surprise, her face going blank for a moment, and had A-Ying’s roguish streak – renowned in his future youth – developed by then, he would have swelled with pride. But it hasn’t, so he’s only impatient to race ahead, his young body grappling to keep up with his schemes. 

“A-Ying!” 

\---

“Is there...” _a-die_ pauses when he returns from his weekly trip to the local village, squinting at the sight on the ground. _A-niang_ snickers, watching thoughts die on his tongue, uncertain in the face of such an oddity. 

“Is there,” he starts again, handing the groceries in his hands to his wife, “something going on that I should be aware of?” 

“Your son,” _a-niang_ chuckles in return, “is trying to politely invite the puppy to his bed.” 

_A-die_ stills, eyes roving quietly to take in his wife’s face, then the trail of meat bits on the ground, meticulously arranged in a line like a beacon of light. It disappears into their home, a steady intersperse of space separating each bit. There’s something like loud snuffling somewhere from one of the bushes and a muffled giggling from within the house, so _a-die_ knows that he’s gotten back just in time for the highlight. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, just looks – and then tilts his head to the side, like he’s just remembered something. “My son.” 

“Yes, your son.” 

“He’s your son too.” 

“He’s up to some mischief, so he’s your son today.” 

_A-die_ scoffs quietly, lips quirking into a little tick. “ _My_ son is very intelligent.” 

_A-niang_ laughs out loud, muffling it when there is another loud shush from the house. “He is, is he?” 

“Yes.” _A-die_ sounds mildly proud, and then he steps into the house and calls for A-Ying. 

\---

A-Ying grows close to his puppy, and doesn’t call it anything but puppy. When _a-niang_ asks him if he wants to name it something else, A-Ying only looks at her in confusion, like he doesn’t comprehend the absurdity of not calling it that. 

They aren’t inseparable; puppy often runs off on its own short jaunts, often coming back smelling of earth, grass, and the sun. A-Ying is happy to to let it go and welcome it back in its own time, playing with it when they’re both home. But puppy seems to know when to stay and accompany A-Ying whenever _a-die_ and _a-niang_ leave for their hunts. 

During those days, it creeps its way into A-Ying’s side, nosing busily until it finds a spot in the child’s lap to snooze. In the evening, they mock brawl and throw sticks in the little backyard that _a-die_ had cleared for them, A-Ying laughing at the puppy’s frantic rush to chase after almost every moving existence – butterflies, blades of grass, floating pieces of dust. 

A-Ying declares the puppy his best friend, and himself the puppy’s best ally. 

\---

“A-Ying, come for dinner already, or you’re going to bed on an empty stomach.” 

“A-Ying feeding puppy first. Really quick.” 

“What about your dinner?” 

“ _Really quick_. Promise.” 

\---

“A-Ying! Don’t track mud into the house! Out! You and the puppy, both!” 

“...I’ll go wash them down.”

\---

“...A-Ying, the puppy isn’t cold, stop dressing it up in your old clothes.” 

\---

“ _A-niang_ , puppy is hungry.”

“You just fed it.”

“But it ate _a-die_ ’s shoes.” 

“ _What_.”

\---

“...Wei Cangze, it’s your turn to open the door for the dog to go for its midnight pee.” 

“A-Ying’s baby days...were easier.” 

\---

“For fuck’s sake! Wei Cangze, is the dog humping you?!” 

“...”

“ _A-die_ , what is ‘For fuck’s sake’? What’s humping?”

\---

“What’s wrong?” 

“...You know, for all that i complaint about A-Ying’s puppy, I’ve never been more thankful for it than tonight.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“...A-Ying nearly got bitten by a snake today. The puppy killed it.”

\---

And for a long while, life was the four of them – peacefully monotonous, painfully domestic, hopelessly warm. Bound by tenderness and warmth; blessed by undisturbed, untroubled bliss. 

A-Ying thinks he’s never been happier, thinks he can never be happier. 

\---

But then all of a sudden, it is just A-Ying and the puppy – dog now. _A-die_ and _a-niang_ had left – one day, three days, eight days; one kiss to his forehead, one to his nose, one to each eyelid – and not returned since then. 

The first night, A-Ying went to bed on a full stomach with puppy, unconcerned because it happens sometimes. _A-die_ and _a-niang_ doesn’t always make it back within one night, having travelled too far to make it back in time. Puppy made for a warm enough cuddle and a willing enough companion, so A-Ying curls up tight and burrows his face against doggy breath that _a-niang_ will probably complain about when she returns in the morning. 

Come the second night, A-Ying still isn’t worried. There’s still food enough for three meals for a few more days because _a-niang_ often proclaims herself lazy and would prefer to cook in big portions to last several fare instead of little dishes enough only for a few tummies. Besides, A-Ying eats like a bird – in little bites, with no scheduled time, starting a small fire to warm the food and nibbling when he’s hungry enough. Like most spirited children, he doesn’t have enough drill in him to sit still enough at a proper table if it weren’t for his parents. 

Instead, he spends the day playing a little more than he should, clambering over fences to play with some other children within the area and tossing careful glances over his shoulder to make sure that his parents do not catch him in the act. His bravado is enough to carry him as far as the little brook hidden some yards away in a little clearing in the woods behind their home – usually forbidden unless with _a-die_ and _a-niang_. 

That night, he shares a meagre meal with puppy, who had run off for a brief period and come back smelling of dirt, and whispers, “Is _a-die_ and _a-niang_ having lots of fun?”

The fourth night, he changes out of his clothes, which had begun to streak with dirt from all his romps and wraps himself up in _a-die_ ’s clothes. It humours him, an impromptu dress-up session, but A-Ying doesn’t hear the tremor that rattles his chest, quivers his grin. Food is starting to get stale now, but he eats them anyway because having something is better than having nothing. 

At night, he drowns himself further in his parents’ blankets, inhaling a scent that he’s always associated with security and comfort – cuddles before sleep, cuddles after nightmares, cuddles just for the heck of it. Tears up. But then quickly wipes them away and reminds himself of _a-niang_ ’s words. 

_Things are never as bad as you think they are. Chin up!_

“Chin up!” A-Ying asserts forcefully, repeats and reiterates even at puppy, as if the dog would understand. Except it seems to do, tilting its head to the side and barking back in response before lifting its head up in an almost-encouragement. A-Ying is grateful, laughs and pats at puppy; but a protective, possessive, territorial impulse rose within him that wouldn’t let him let it into _a-die_ and _a-niang_ ’s bed with him. 

“Stay here,” A-Ying demands, pointing at the ground beside the bed – he wants the relief from his parents’ bed but also the consolation from his only other companion. 

Puppy does, but leaves after midnight, snuggling in A-Ying’s bed instead. 

\---

The tenth day, A-Ying takes to the streets with puppy, and gets bullied for the first time in a fight for food. The homeless children do not take kindly to the new pair; and while A-Ying had been in enough brawls when playing with other youths when things had been better, he has never fought with spite and malice – fueled by desperation and an empty tummy. 

“Why can’t we share?!” A-Ying cries at sharp fists and sharper grins, not able to comprehend the idea of survival of the fittest, dog-eat-dog world. All he can think about is _a-niang_ telling him to remember always the kindness of other people, remember less of his good will, remember to shower others with courtesy – and all these do not fit in in this new world that he’s thrust into. 

Puppy tries to protect him, growls and bites and inflicts what damage that it can because it still remembers A-Ying’s pets and hugs – being fed from A-Ying’s hand and bowl; but what is a dog against a group of ferocious children with sticks and stones and a survival instinct honed sharp by vagabondage?

They go home that night, bruised and hungry; doesn’t stay in the streets, doesn’t stake a claim in the streets because A-Ying still misses his parents’ blankets. 

\---

But as weeks turn into months, even the scent fades; and A-Ying finds it harder and harder to remember his parents over his rumbling stomach. He knows the concept of death now, and knows also that his parents aren't coming back. Doesn't know how he knows, just knows that he does.

But in a strange way, it lightens his heart a little because if they're dead, it means that he wasn't abandoned by _a-die_ and _a-niang_. It was that they couldn't come back to him. He’s sure they tried everything in their power, but sometimes, even your best means nothing; and A-Ying only cares that he’s not unwanted and unloved by his own parents.

Only puppy stays by his side now, and A-Ying loves the puppy all the more for it; but even then, A-Ying thinks something is going to break between them. A-Ying doesn’t know what it’s called, but it’s a niggling at the back of his head when he sees puppy fighting more and more often with the other dogs on the streets – the ones he keeps away from because they’re usually by the fringe of the city, and he’s never had reason to fight them yet. 

He’s starting to get accepted into certain groups and circles of the children on the streets now, working together to pool rations when they can; and A-Ying finds himself laughing with them every now and then when some compassionate people throw them scraps from the table. He does his best to grab a little more even when the other children scolds him – “What’s the point of feeding that dog, it can fight for its own meal!” – because he’s still not broken his habit of sharing food with puppy, but. 

But now he fears when hears puppy snarl and bark with a kind of ferocity that he doesn’t remember coming from his friend. 

That is when he begins to understand the brutality of a pragmatic world – an initiation into the reality of things. That is how he begins to know.

That puppy wouldn’t stay his anymore. Not much longer. 

And it’ll be soon. Very soon. 

\---

And soon couldn’t come sooner. 

It happens when he sees puppy limping, clearly hurt from another fight with the street dogs, and A-Ying is aghast at the extent of the injuries. There’s a ripped ear that looks more like it’s been clawed off than chewed off, and a gash across its nose – the one that A-Ying always nuzzles and boops. It’s puppy’s sweetest features, A-Ying had once proclaimed, much to his parents’ humour, and it’s a bloody punch to his heart now. A mangled paw makes it all worse, and A-Ying thinks he slumps for a long while, uncertain if he could even touch puppy without hurting it even more. 

But when he tries anyway, puppy snaps at him – scratches A-Ying across the forearm in a vicious swipe that startles A-Ying more than it hurts him. 

“Puppy!” A-Ying cries, rearing back in surprise, and takes another few more steps back when it growls louder, teeth bared. It’s frightening, a different puppy that he’s never seen or experienced before. “It’s me! Why are you biting at me?!” 

But puppy growls still, and A-Ying stays rooted in his spot, until one of the bigger boys – the one A-Ying likes to tag after even though he’s repeatedly chased away – hears him, sees him, and comes to save him. The boy picks up a stone, screams, and tosses the stone close enough to puppy to scare it into scampering off. 

“No! Puppy! Stop please, A-Feng!” 

A-Feng tosses another rock again, tugging A-Ying behind him. “Go away and bully someone else!” 

A-Ying sobs heartily for the first time since he’s lost, and hits A-Feng like he blames the older boy for trying to keep him safe even though he knows that A-Feng had only meant well. “That’s puppy! Puppy is my friend!” 

A-Feng sneers at the boy instead, harshly tugging at A-Ying’s arms to inspect his wound, washing it in precious, pilfered water with enough force to turn the surrounding skin redder. “Yes. Friend. This wound is given to you by a friend. How about you let it rip your skin apart and gnaw on your bones then?!” 

A-Ying sobs some more; A-Feng heaves a breath like he’s run a thousand miles just to tuck A-Ying into his side despite finding the younger boy annoying. 

“You’re so fucking troublesome,” A-Feng says, uncouth and uneducated, but unbearably kind hearted. He bends down to A-Ying’s height and wipes at the boy’s tears, hands cupping grubby cheeks grown gaunt from weeks of scuffling. “Beasts are beasts, A-Ying. It’s fine if it’s well-fed, you can teach it any tricks and it’ll obey you. But it’s a different thing on the streets. Everything gets a little wilder, a little more barbaric, a little more feral when you need to decide between your survival or another’s. Do you understand?”

A-Feng tears a strip of cloth from his shirt and wraps it around A-Ying’s arm, feeds him a piece of _mantou_ stolen from the fierce restaurant owner two lanes away; but A-Ying still doesn’t want to believe him. 

Wants to hope for the best. Wants to trust even if his gut twists uncomfortably. 

\---

Except he’s just a little boy with dreams that remain dreams. 

A-Ying is in the middle of foraging from a pile of garbage for leftovers when he next hears puppy. He’s not eaten properly for days, getting chased away by shop proprietors who do not want their reputation tarnished by grubby children loitering around the front of their shops. It’s been his luck to find several _xiao long bao_ , still warm, still fragrant, still mouthwateringly appetising – perhaps tossed away after having been dropped on the floor by accident. 

A-Ying rejoices, heart soaring before he could stop himself; but when he turns, it’s puppy, but also not puppy that faces him. 

It’s scruffed up now, fur mangled; and there is a strange light in its eyes. Angry the way puppy never used to be. Malicious. Sizing up A-Ying like A-Ying is rival, is prey, is victim. Its haunches tightens in a way that isn’t friendly, isn’t poised for a leap to greet; instead, it clenches in a way ready for a kill. 

A-Ying’s breath stutters, and hears – 

\---

And something jolts in Wei Wuxian enough for him to remember how it all started. His fear of dogs, if anything that resembles a canine. His fingers claw at empty air, reaches for Hanguang-Jun’s hold that curves instinctively around his own, puzzled if not a little concerned. 

Jin Ling is fighting with Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui by the side, defending Fairy’s obedience and docility. As if to prove his master right, Fairy _is_ crouched quietly by Jin Ling’s feet, panting every now and then like he fighting hard to get more air.

“Look, you know about Wei- _qianbei_ ’s phobia – why do you have to be all obstinate and try to bring the damn dog here?!” Lan Jingyi looks ready to pull his hair out out of frustration – or Jin Ling’s hair. Lan Jingyi doesn’t seem to really care at this point. 

“He’s old enough to overcome his fear, okay?! He can start with Fairy!” 

“That’s not how phobia works!” 

“Look, with enough exposure – ”

“Is this how you became so stupid? With enough exposure to stupidity?!” 

“ _What did you say?!_ ” 

Wei Wuxian laughs right then, a hearty one that stuns the junior cultivators and makes Fairy perk up, eager to be affectionate with this one person who always ran away from him. But Wei Wuxian only shakes his head, serene for once – none of the fear that mars his face at the sound and sight of a dog. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji intones from his side, a careful touch as always to share him his support despite not being quite certain where his husband is coming from. 

“Sorry, Jin Ling. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over dogs, even if it’s Fairy,” Wei Wuxian shrugs, even as Jin Ling bristles even more. “But let me tell you a story. I used to have a little puppy – ” 

“ _ **Don’t lie!**_ ”

Wei Wuxian smiles and leans against his husband coquettishly. “Am I now? How about you, Lan Zhan? Would you believe me?” 

Lan Wangji says nothing, only stares at Wei Wuxian – sharp, assessing, appraising. Golden and clear, like he can pick out truth from lies with just one look. And perhaps he can, especially when it comes to Wei Wuxian. 

“Yes.” His voice is deep, like the toll of a thousand-year bell, like the eyes of a Buddha statuette; and Wei Wuxian’s grin broadens, softens even if the others gag in the background. 

“I had a puppy, Lan Zhan. I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know that MXTX said that WWX's cynophobia was a result of having to fight off dogs when he lived on the streets, but I also wanted to explore the possibilities beyond that while keeping in canon. Not exactly sure if I managed to, but am sorta glad I wrote this because the little puppy in my head wouldn't leave me alone.


End file.
